


Middle-earth Superstitions

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fellowship of the Ring, Multi-Age, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 21,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fics written by Henneth Annûn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate Was That Day More Strong

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

There was no time. There might be a patrol at any moment that would discover the slain sentries. They had to leave—now. But the bound and bloodied form that lay at his feet was insensate, unresponsive to his whispers, and Gwindor was fidgeting at his back. There was no time! Even Elves could not make time, and Beleg cursed silently as he yanked one of the cruel-hafted knives from the tree and began to cut through the tough leather straps that bound Túrin to the trunk. With a gesture and jerk of his head, he prompted Gwindor to come and help, and the other obeyed, gingerly and with great reluctance taking up the weapons of his tormentors to free one not so very unlike him in terms of fortune. But just as he leaned over to saw at the bonds about Túrin's legs, Gwindor made a muffled sound of sudden terror, and Beleg whirled, knife cocked and at the ready for a throw... only to see Gwindor frantically brushing at a spider that had scuttled up his arm. "Do no—" But it was too late: Gwindor crushed it and wiped his hand on the ground.

Then, shooting a glare at Beleg, he hissed softly, "Go on! Pay me no heed but see to the task!" Without a further word, he bent over the straps and began cutting at them. After a moment, Beleg followed suit, for they could afford no delay. But when at last they had freed their friend, and together, they hoisted him in their arms, Beleg looked down at Túrin's pale, bruised face, and memory unfolded:

Of a grave young man who had joined Beleg on the Northmarch—an incongruously beautiful lad whose beatific smile would have been less terrifying did he not wear it while slaying. Else he was a sullen, sad thing to look upon, which seemed a waste of such looks. And though he was ever glad enough to help in any task, he seemed always to find a way to break something despite what seemed an innate grace. Paradox became him, it seemed, and Beleg remembered him staying his hand when he would have crushed a spider that had scuttled too near the marcher company's somewhat frugal supper. "Do not!" he had said. "They are good luck." And he had, with patient puffs of breath, coaxed it into his hands and taken it away to a new home in the bushes about their camp.

For weeks, the company had chuckled over that. "What luck can spiders bring?" they would ask.

"Good if you spare them; bad if you slay them," would come the inevitable reply, and soon enough all those who marched with Túrin had learned to have a care about the spiders. 'Twas not as if they were of the monstrous brood of Nan Dungortheb, after all, and so long as he had no compunction about slaying the Orcs and wolves that threatened the borders, the Elves humored this strange custom of his. Beleg had even adopted it of late, for being Anglachel's master made him think that mayhap a bit of luck would not be unwelcome, and it was not hard to come by it in the forests.

And so now, as he and Gwindor sweated and strained to lift the unconscious Man over the briars, and into a little clearing among them, Beleg found himself uneasy with Gwindor's accidental murder of eight-legged luck. _For we shall need fortune's favor_ , he thought, as he surveyed briefly the Man at his feet. The chains strung about and between his hands could wait, if only they could get him on his feet and moving. _Up with you, man, and off with these fetters, and if only we have a little luck, we shall see home again!_

But fate was that day more strong than luck, for two only came ever home, and not to Doriath.

 

****

 

 

Dwimordene

Comments? dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com

HASA members, please leave comments [here.](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=33)

Thank you!

Title phrase taken from _The Silmarillion_ , "Of Túrin Túrambar," 255.


	2. A Star to Steer Her By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Captain Belzor gazed in some despair at his deck: littered with bodies, it was, all of them seeming underfoot. His men did their best to ignore the chaos as they went about fastening hatches, checking the rigging one last time, readying the ship for departure while dodging children and their frantic parents, all of them gathered above deck so as not to miss the setting forth. _Our last time out_ , Belzor thought. He had been captain of the _Westwind_ and her namesakes for fifty-three years, and before that, he had made many a voyage as a seaman and apprentice, going mostly to the north of Middle-earth on the long voyages, though he had seen Pelargir a few times. But no more. Rómenna would not welcome him home again.

"His lordship comes!" Belzor turned, uncertain who had spoken, but heads turned now as four men approached the harbor. Three guards, by their uniforms, with Lord Anárion in the lead. But just as they reached the dock, he paused, gesturing for his men to precede him, and then stooped to scoop (or rather scrape) up a handful of earth. Last to board, as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the deck, he tossed the sand back over his shoulder, which surprised Belzor. Lord Elendil's younger son was more often his father's aide, and his sailings had been ever and only to different ports of Númenor. With only brief, if not unkind acknowledgment of the deference shown by those about him, Anárion glanced round, found Belzor, and made straight for him, excusing himself as he threaded about passengers and crew.

"Captain Belzor," Anárion greeted him, and Belzor bowed.

"My lord. We await your order," he replied.

"'Tis your ship. Give the command," Anárion answered, and the captain nodded sharply.

"Raise anchor!" he called astern, and got an acknowledgment, and with that call, the process of disembarking began in earnest. The tide was running, and it took them with it, pulling them out of harbor as sails began to unfurl to catch the wind. All along the dock, ships were leaving—nine of them, some circling already on the horizon, awaiting the others. Westwind would be among the last to join them.

"Have you not forgotten something, captain?" Anárion asked at his side, then, and Belzor blinked, then frowned, surprised.

"Well, my lord," he admitted slowly, "I suppose you could say that, though 'tis not a forgetting. But we'll not be coming home, so I brought no seeds, though you've tossed the sand." For it was tradition for the last man to board to give the sea a taste of the earth, for luck, that she not claim those who went upon it, and also to promise a seed to the ship, if she would carry them safely home to plant it. Thus doubly insured against ill fortune, Númenorean seamen set forth on their journeys, and it had truly bothered Belzor to forego that ritual. But it made no sense, since they would not be coming back. "I must say, my lord, that I had not expected you to know this or miss it."

Anárion simply chuckled softly, and said, "I have not sailed, nor have I warred, but even a politician does not scorn good luck or that which brings it, and it is his business to know what others do not expect him to know. Here." He reached into his belt pouch and produced a tiny box, lacquered black with a rayed star done in red and white upon the lid, which he handed to Belzor. Belzor, after glancing up at his lord for permission and receiving it, open the lid gingerly, and sucked in a breath. Within, there lay strange seeds of a kind he had not seen before.

"What are they?"

"I am told they are a kind of elvish flower that grows best in Middle-earth, though it seems, despite the bans of the Kings, that it is quite popular in Armenelos. Elanor, the Elves would call it—"sun-star" in our markets. My family has a penchant for collecting seeds," Anárion said wryly. "But I knew of this custom, and I thought mayhap this would suit us better."

"Mayhap, indeed, my lord," Belzor grinned, feeling an almost painful  
relief. "Aye, mayhap it will indeed!"

****  
\--Dwimordene  
Comments? dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com  
HASA members, please leave comments [here.](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=33)

Thank you!


	3. Within the King's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

  
Haldan had to think his queen was at least eccentric, if not downright crazy. Though downright crazy didn't seem far from the truth-- she was odd, to say the least. More than odd-- more than half-baked-- he thought she was a witch. A witch of Umbar-- weirder things had happened, after all. Though why his lord would be married to a Black Numenorean witch...

Another black cat padded past him-- this one headed out the hall he was walking down. Three black cats in five minutes. Eerie, that. He knew they were not the same cat-- this one had golden eyes. The last one had been dark brown. The one before that had possessed demonically green eyes.

Haldan muttered a prayer to Ulmo for protection against evil beneath his breath. You never knew with cats. They could be innocent house pets, as most claimed-- or maybe they could be servants of a nameless and dark evil. He tried not to prefer the latter, but in such times, with a woman who had the threat of being a witch as queen... you did not take risks.

There was a dark form down the hallway. Beruthiel, clad in black, as rumor said she normally was. Haldan muttered the end of his prayer again, to make sure he did not fall under some kind of evil spell. He had never met Beruthiel before--his place was on the battlefield, after all. But Tarannon had been explicit--go and meet his wife, and then tell Tarannon if the rumors were founded that there was a witch at the King's House in Osgiliath.

Beruthiel was shadowed by a woman hooded in an elaborate gray cloak that shimmered with silver threads. She held a white cat in her arms. Haldan saw the briefest flicker of green eyes beneath the heavy cloak, and wondered with a terrified jolt if his queen had learned how to turn cats into people.

"My lady!" He said, pushing his fear beneath his stomach. "My lady, I bring word from Tarannon."

Beruthiel stopped, and fixed heavy, stony gray eyes upon him. Her voice was deep, and cold. As he had expected. "Tell it, Captain Haldan."

She knew his name. She knew his name, and they had never met. How terrifying. From where had she learned? "He inquires after your health and well-being and wishes to know how he may be of service to you." Haldan replied, trying not to feel nervous.

Beruthiel smiled thinly. "Tell him all is well at the King's House in  
Osgiliath."

"He also inquires as to the nature of his queen, and what she has become."

Beruthiel laughed-- a harsh sound, equally terrifying as it was chilling. "Then tell him that she is as she was, save happier away from the sea." She paused. "I have not become a witch in these or any days." The queen's hands fidgeted with the necklace she was wearing. It was heavy, with a large, finely etched pendant hanging on the end of the silver chain. "Do you know, Haldan son of Narol, that bad luck runs with those who cross black cats?" Haldan tried not to pale at her words. "Be careful you do not be rude to one on the way out-- they can be very easily angered when upset, though I do my best to pacify my pretties."

She was enjoying frightening him-- that was clear. Haldan's eyes traveled down to the pendant, where she fingered it. Cats prowled over it, beneath a sickle moon. Strange runes were carved around it, seeming almost unwholesome to his eyes. He thoug t he saw the etchings on the silver grow in shape, so that they filled his vision with silver cats, running and leaping over the walls, as the moon above hung down and the runes scrolled through his sight, strange words filling his ears until...

"I am what I ever was." Beruthiel concluded, her fingers shutting over the silver, blocking out the visions. "If that makes me a witch by Gondor's standards, than witch I have ever been." Haldan was quite ready to run. Beruthiel nodded to him, a clear dismissal, then began to trace her free hand back and forth in the air. Her lips parted, and there were words in a language Haldan could not understand.

He ran, praying under his breath the whole time. She was a witch-- Tarannon would not be pleased. He had tried to be polite, he had tried, but she was cursing him! Black cats watched his flight, and silver robed women opened the door for him as he fled, shutting him out. Only when he could no longer see into the windows of the King's House did he feel safe.

Within, Beruthiel was laughing as she finished her blessing for speed and safety back to Tarannon to bear news pleasing to him. "Witch," she muttered, almost deliriously. "Am I a witch, Nariel?" she asked, turning to the woman with the silver cloak who held the purring white feline, an lean and muscular creature as large as some dogs,. "And what do you think, Miri?" She reached out and stroked the head of her blue-eyed favorite.

The white cat mewled, and Beruthiel had her answer.

***

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.--Macbeth

We never saw the day... so bent upon the darkness that lay before us, we never looked to the heavens and saw the light that could surround us. --Karigan Rohanna  



	4. Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"Fetch a knife," Gilda told Ula.

Ula raised an eyebrow, but her mistress nodded fiercely. "Bring it!"

Dutifully the girl left the room where the woman was laboring and padded off down the tunnel to the kitchen. Posco Underhill looked up as she entered, and his eyes begged her.

"All is well," said Ula soothingly. "It will not be long now until Daisy is safe delivered. Mistress Brandybuck has no equal when it comes to bringing babies safely." She looked around. "I need a knife."

"There, in the drawer." Posco gestured towards the heavy oaken cupboard. "I can hear her. . . is there anything I can do?"

"Boil some water," Ula told him. "We will want hot water to wash the child when it comes." She chose a large sharp knife with a bone handle and lifted it from the drawer. "Don’t worry."

Returning down the passage to the birthing room, Ula wondered why Gilda had asked for a knife. The birth was going normally enough, given that it was Daisy’s first. Her surprise increased when, instead of taking the knife, Gilda told her to show it to Daisy, then place it under the bed. Ula could see no purpose to the action, but did as Gilda instructed. To her further astonishment, after seeing the knife Daisy’s face relaxed and some of the strain seemed to leave her body.

The labor went quickly then, determination replacing pain in the mother-to-be’s expression, and a scant half-hour later Ula was fetching Posco to introduce him to his new daughter.

It was too late to return to Brandy Hall that night, so Gilda and Ula shared the bed in the Underhill’s spare room. As they undressed, Ula said, "I don’t understand, Mistress. Why did you have me bring the knife to Daisy’s room?"

"What did you see happen, girl?"

Ula thought. "As soon as she saw the knife it was as if her pain was less. But that makes no sense."

"Did you never hear tell that a knife will cut a mother’s pains in two? It worked because she believed it would. It wouldn’t work for me, or for you, but such tricks are worth knowing." Gilda turned down the blankets. "Telling her to ignore the pain would do nothing. Using her childhood beliefs, what her mother taught her, is far more effective. The truth doesn’t matter when you heal – it is the result that you must pay attention to."

Snuggling down next to the warmth of the old Hobbit-woman’s body, Ula pondered. If the trick worked for a woman in childbirth, might it work at other times, too?

*******

\--Celandine Brandybuck

**Author's Note:**  
With permission, I’ve borrowed Gilda and Ula from Anglachel on a temporary basis. This story is set a few years before Ang’s "Legacy."  



	5. When the Stars Are Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Aragorn and Halbarad during their younger days....

****

A slight shiver ran down Aragorn's spine, and he suspected that the chilly wind of the autumn night was not its only cause. He glanced about him with apprehension, taking in what details he could make out in the wet and cloudy night.

His eyes came to rest upon Halbarad who slept soundly beneath his cloak. His huddled form was barely visible beneath the thick tangle of thorny undergrowth where they had sought shelter form the pelting rain in the afternoon, abandoning their aim to reach the Ranger's camp near the ruins of Fornost ere nightfall.

Not for the first time he wondered at Halbarad's ability to sleep wherever he lay, for Aragorn oft found it difficult to do so in the Wild, though he had slept soundly beneath the stars countless times before. But then he had been in the company of his brothers whom he trusted blindly.

With Halbarad, however, that was a different matter entirely. _Mayhap 'tis his youth,_ Aragorn mused, for Halbarad was even younger than Aragorn himself, and barely more versed in the ways of the Wild.

Aragorn shook his head to clear his mind, but could not quite rid himself of the lingering anxiety. He had never been one to get easily scared and he desperately sought for an answer that would explain his sudden fear. Raising his eyes to the sky he sought comfort in the stars that had become visible through a tear in the thick layer of clouds. But the sight that greeted him was none to comfort his frayed nerves.

Carnil and Borgil stood high in the southern sky, too close for Aragorn's comfort. _When Carnil and red Borgil meet, blood is about to be spilled._ Aragorn had first witnessed their 'meeting' more than ten years ago. His brothers had provided the tale that went with that constellation, but whether they had meant to teach him the language of the stars or merely frighten him, he had never been able to tell. He had refused to believe that tale, of course, but a few month later he had been told that that very day had been the day of the Battle of the Five Armies.

Aragorn jerked as an eerie howl drifted through the forest. He shifted his position involuntarily until the thicker stems of the brushes poked in his back, for a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades had increased his fear that now bordered on the brink of panic.

Aragorn sat up straight, his hand seeking the hilt of his sword. He managed to keep his panic in check for about five minutes longer while the howling grew louder, eerily amplified by the wind that had picked up in strength.

Aragorn bit his lower lip and, losing his internal struggle of whether to make a fool of himself by waking Halbarad or not, reached out for his sleeping companion.

"Halbarad!"

"'Tis not yet my time to take the watch," Halbarad yawned, leaving the obvious question as to the other's reason for ending his slumber lingering unspoken between them.

Aragorn swallowed hard for he felt like a child yet feared that his panic might show in his voice. "There's something amiss in the forest," he answered in a whisper, "can you not hear those howls?"

Halbarad raised an eyebrow in surprise at both Aragorn's words and the urgency in the other's voice. "Were there no deer in Imladris?" he asked, slightly amused.

"Deer?" Aragorn queried, feeling his cheeks flush in embarrassment while silently hoping that Halbarad was still drowsy enough to forget the whole incident come morning.

"Yes, deer," Halbarad said, "my dear. Those howls are nothing but the rutting calls of stags. I thought you were familiar with their ways."

"Of course I am familiar with their ways!"

"Then pray tell what else scared you out of your wits that you mistake deer for creatures of the Dark Lord and wake me from my well deserved rest?"

"Well ..." Aragorn sighed, "it's the stars!"

"The stars?"

"Aye, the stars."

Aragorn sighed, then pointed to the sky where the clouds were receding. "You see those reddish stars?" he asked, then continued when Halbarad nodded in the dark. "The upper is Carnil, the other Borgil. They are in alignment tonight. _When Carnil and red Borgil meet, blood is about to be spilled._ That, at least, is the saying of the Elves." Aragorn paused, then added somewhat sheepishly, "Or rather what my brothers told me."

"I would have never thought that you were prone to superstition," Halbarad laughed, but his mirth quickly vanished, and his tone became more serious. "I would, however, not belittle your fears. The rain has stopped, so we should leave this place ... unless you require rest as well."

Aragorn regarded Halbarad with mild surprise, then shook his head, "Nay, I would leave this place as well."

That said, they gathered their damp belongings and untangled themselves from the brushes, eager to be on their way.

~*~*~*~

The morning found a pair of muddied and exhausted rangers being hailed by one of the guards of the Fornost camp, one leaning heavily upon the other, favouring one leg, a gash upon his forehead.

"My lord, are you well?" the guard inquired as soon as he recognized the ragged figures.

"Aye, 'tis but a scratch and a sprained ankle," Aragorn replied tiredly, shooting Halbarad a quelling glare.

"When Carnil and red Borgil meet, blood is about to be spilled," the other recited, deliberately reaching for Aragorn's forehead where blood still oozed from the wound.

"Had I not roused you when I did, we would have never escaped from those Orcs."

"Though your tussle with that ditch almost gave us away. However, your premonitions are not to be dismissed," a grinning Halbarad replied while steering his friend to the hidden path that lead to the safety of the Ranger's camp.

****  
\--Fliewatuet  
Join discussion at [Fliewatuet's Folloups](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=6&forumId=106)


	6. The Swan Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Finduilas opened her eyes suddenly upon feeling a gentle caress, and her lips smiled out of their own will as she rolled onto her side to look at him. Denethor still slept, but his arm was stretched toward her and moving, perhaps seeking her warmth, the tips of his fingers had softly grazed her cheek, sending a ticklish shiver down her back.

Dawn drew close, and the dim beams of light that entered through their window allowed her to see him as she had never done until that night. A thrill of excitement ran through her body when she thought that no one could see the lord Denethor like she saw him now. He looked so different when he slept! No lines creased his brow, nor was the set of his jaw so tight and stern. He looked wonderfully... relaxed, not only his face but his whole body, and thus she remained quietly watching as his chest rose and fell, and with every breath a sly, pleasant smile twitched the corners of his mouth in a most becoming way. Was he dreaming, or was he remembering their love the night before?

Reluctantly taking her eyes away from her lord, she looked around her new chamber discovering traces of the night before: her white gown lay on the floor still, and her shoes where she had carelessly dropped them. Denethor's shirt was on the bed, along with the clasps that had tied her braids; and, on top of the table by his side, he had carefully placed her blue bag, her bride's bag. She didn't exactly know why she had brought it along, or why she had even dared show it to Denethor. But, to her surprise and pleasure, he had not thought it a childish custom; instead had smiled, kissed her, and then had set the bag on his table as the tradition directed.

Inside the velvet bag, she knew, were the things every bride in Belfalas carried with her on the day of her wedding: a belonging of her mother's, for happiness, and she had brought a dolphin pin; a gift from her husband-to-be, a book Denethor had given her when they were courting; something from her land to secure motherhood, and she had brought an oyster-shell; and one item for the wedding night: the swan feather. She shuddered upon remembering the swan feather in her bag, and how she had forgotten to sew it onto Denethor's pillow. She felt compelled to reach across for the bag; but, that would wake him, and he seemed so contented! `Twas such a silly superstition! Old maid's talk to scare girls who let those fancies take to their heads. And yet, according to the custom, the swan feather would ensure fidelity and love in their marriage... After their night, it didn't seem as though love could ever fail; but...

Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could in search of the bag, and a needle somewhere so that she could sew that feather and go back to sleep. She may have made some noise as she fumbled with the things inside the drawer, for next she heard Denethor's voice.

"Finduilas?" he called, still more asleep than awake. "Is there aught  
wrong?"

"Nay, lord," she timidly replied. "I am... looking for a match."

"A match?" he asked, now fully awake. Finduilas thought she heard something like dread behind his tone. "Whatever for?"

"Well, to light this candle, my lord," she had to admit. "And, since you already know that, I may need a needle and some thread."

"Why would you need any of that now? I cannot guess."

" 'Tis hard to explain, Denethor. But, you see-" she hesitated, yet decided that it was best to let it all out, especially because the feather needed be sewn before dawn and there was no time to waste, "in my homeland, 'tis said that if... if a swan feather is attached to the husband's pillow on the wedding-night," she stopped, unable to believe that she was paying heed to such customs, "then the couple is ensured fidelity and love," her voice ended in a whisper, and for a few moments a heavy silence wrung between them, until she heard what resembled the sound of muffled chuckles.

"What amuses you so?" she asked, more out of disbelief than indignation. "I understand that it may seem silly to you now, but it's always important to follow one's traditions-"

"You amuse me, my lady," he said tenderly as he knelt by her. "And it amuses me to wonder about what you may think when I tell you that you will find no matches in that drawer."

"But, I need them, Denethor!" She was surprised at her increasing distress. "If I don't sew that feather to your pillow before dawn-"

"Had I known I had married a lady who cared so much about these things, I would've ordered for more superstitions to be taken into account for our ceremony. There is a myriad of them, you know." She thought she detected the faintest trace of mirth as he spoke, but the dim light made it impossible to determine whether he smiled or not.

"More?" was all she managed to ask.

"Indeed," he said while retreating to the bed. "Many; such as the one that prescribes that there should be no lights lit in the newlyweds' chamber after the candle is blown out at night. It brings ill luck," and with that, he went to sleep. Finduilas knew not whether to cry, or to laugh at what her husband had shown her about himself. She still regretted not being able to sew the feather, but heaving a sigh, she was happy to climb back into his arms which quickly wrapped about her, enveloping her with their warmth. The next morning, however, she had to smile upon seeing the feather, safely secured to Denethor's pillow with her mother's dolphin pin.

****  
\--Starlight  
[My forum](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=139)


	7. Red and White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had never heard of this particular belief before, but doing some online research I found a taboo against bunching white and red flowers together cited as one of the most widespread flower superstitions. Apparently, not so long ago, hospital staff would never allow a vase of red and white flowers to be brought onto a ward in case the death of a patient followed.

The sickroom was quiet, airy, and set in the southern wall of the Citadel so that it caught every drop of honeyed sunlight. All three qualities made it eminently suited to its purpose; and yet Finduilas would rather have remained in her own rooms two floors down. Up here, away from the life of the household, she too often felt as isolated as though she were already lying in the Silent Street far below.

Her husband's concern and the healers' wisdom, however, could not be gainsaid, and so here she rested, surrounded by soft cushions, soft-voiced attendants, and peace.

Each afternoon, her sons were allowed a brief visit, and having had the necessity of quietude fiercely impressed upon them they were rarely as boisterous as two young boys might have been expected to be. Their visits were precious to her, paid for in the coin of sudden exhaustion.

Meril opened the door. "Are you ready, my lady?"

"Of course. Please tell Haleth to bring them in."

Shepherded in by their nurse, Boromir and Faramir huddled together, looking conspiratorial. She caught a glimpse of leaves half-hidden behind their backs and smiled. Another motley bouquet for her, full of straggling vetch and cornflowers from the Pelennor, no doubt.

Faramir thrust it forth, and the little speech of thanks she had readied caught in Finduilas' throat. Behind her she heard Meril's stricken gasp.

"Mother, what's wrong?" Boromir cried, pushing past his younger brother. "Your face is white!"

"Naught, naught, my lads – 'twas just a cough. Now come, and let me thank you properly for your lovely gift."

Reassured, the boys pressed close and presented her with their trailing burden so that their mother could admire the wild roses and frothy queen's lace. Meril made to speak, but her protest was cut off with a shake of Finduilas' head.

As soon as her sons left, Finduilas fell back on to the pillows as carefully hoarded strength drained from her. Meril gingerly picked up the bunch of flowers on the bed using only her fingertips, as though it were a mass of poisonous weeds.

"Don't throw those away, Meril," she warned. "Tomorrow Faramir and Boromir will want to see that I liked them well enough to keep."

"If you insist, my lady - but I’ll not have the things in here! They can stay in the outer room."

"Meril, don't be so harsh. They had no idea what those flowers meant; they are Minas Tirith boys, after all, not of Dol Amroth. And you and I both know no simple posy can kill – or save – me now."

Meril's eyes fell, for the friend and companion who had travelled north with her many years ago still refused to see what Finduilas perceived all too clearly: that she would never rise from this sickbed again.

And still the doggerel rhyme she had learned as a girl, warning against giving red and white blossoms together, rang in her ears.

_Red, for blood shed;_  
white for a death night.

* * * * * * *

By [Forodwaith](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=241)

Author's Note: I had never heard of this particular belief before, but doing some online research I found a taboo against bunching white and red flowers together cited as one of the most widespread flower superstitions. Apparently, not so long ago, hospital staff would never allow a vase of red and white flowers to be brought onto a ward in case the death of a patient followed.

The lame rhyme is my own invention. ;-)


	8. The White Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Boromir opened his eyes, and wondered what woke him up.

As the ten-year-old boy turned over in his bed, he did the first thing he always did when this happened: he looked over to his little brother's bed across the room, to make sure he was all right. After a moment, he sighed.

The bed was empty.

Sitting up, he brushed his long, straight blonde hair from his eyes and quickly scanned the large bedchamber. Faramir wasn't by the bookcase, the first place Boromir always checked for him when the boy wasn't in his bed. He wasn't in the corner where Boromir's wooden weapons lay untidily strewn about. Then his gaze flicked over to the tall windows, where the moonbeams were streaming into the chamber. A tiny form knelt before the windowsill staring into the starlit night sky.

Something twinged in Boromir's stomach and he slid carefully out of his bed, frowning. The five-year-old hadn't been sleeping well since their mother's death, some six months before, and while he'd been getting better lately, it looked like tonight was not going well.

Quietly Boromir strode across the cold stone floor, trying to be as noiseless as possible. Father would be angry at Faramir for getting Boromir out of bed, if they were discovered.

The younger boy didn't move, his head resting on his crossed arms, the moonlight crowning his thick head of reddish-blonde curls with a halo of silver. At the last moment, the small head turned slightly, and Boromir knew he'd been noticed.

"Are you ill?" Boromir whispered, trying not to wake their nurses next door.

The little head shook slowly, once.

Boromir pursed his lips, throwing a nervous glance at the nurses' door. "You should get back in bed," he said softly, stepping forward and putting a hand gently on his brother's tiny shoulder. "Father won't like it if he finds out you've been up."

He heard a faint sniffle, and Faramir turned to him, his large blue eyes shining in the moon's glow. "I was thinkin' 'bout Mother," the child replied sadly, in a whisper that was just a little too loud.

"Shh!" Boromir said, kneeling beside him quickly and putting a finger to his lips. After a glance at the door, he put his arm around Faramir and leaned in close, his expression turning serious. "Another bad dream?"

"No," sighed Faramir, much softer this time, as he looked back out the window. "I wish she was coming back."

"So do I," Boromir agreed sadly, tightening his hold on his little brother. He never knew what to say at times like this, and hoped that the hug was enough.

Faramir sniffed again. "Do you think she misses us, like we miss her?"

The older boy nodded. "Mmm-hmm," he said, following Faramir's gaze into the starry heavens. "But it's said the dead can see us from where they are, so she can see us when she wants to. Remember, that's what Gandalf told us."

"I know," murmured the little boy, brushing some long, straying curls from his eyes. "But how can we tell if she's watching?"

His brother frowned for a moment, thinking. Suddenly he pointed out the window and whispered sharply, "Look!"

On a wall not far away sat a small white bird, bathed in moonlight and watching the two young boys intently. At being seen, it chirped a little and ruffled its feathers.

"Remember that old story Nurse Aryn told us, about the white bird?" Boromir murmured quickly. "When spirits reach their new home, they send a white bird back to their loved ones to let them know they're safe. So if you see a white bird watching you, that means someone who's passed on is thinking of you, and wants you to know they're all right."

Faramir gazed at the bird, his eyes completely round. The little bird hopped a few inches closer to the window, blinked, then chirped and flew away, soaring over the rooftops of Minas Tirith into the stars.

Faramir gasped, staring after the bird. "Do you think Mother sent that bird?" he finally whispered, his voice full of awe.

Privately, Boromir didn't really believe in such superstitions, but he would not have told Faramir this for any amount of gold. "Of course," he replied, giving the little boy a squeeze. "See, she knew you'd be worried, and wants you to know she still loves us and misses us."

Faramir slowly gasped, still staring into the sky. "I hope he 'members to tell her we miss her, too."

Boromir climbed to his feet. "I'm sure he will," he said, "but if you don't go back to bed, he might come back and see you're still awake, and tattletale to Mother on you. She'd want you asleep by now, I'm sure."

He helped the little boy up as Faramir yawned and rubbed his eyes, and guided his brother back to his bed as silently as possible.

"I'm glad Mother sent that bird," Faramir whispered as he slid back into bed. "I hope she sends one to Father, too. He's so sad."

"I'm sure she will," Boromir replied, tucking Faramir in and feeling bad that Faramir had noticed how sorrowful their father had been lately. The boy didn't need to be troubled by that, too. He gave the boy a very quick good-night kiss on the forehead.

Faramir's eyes were closed as Boromir stood, and after waiting a moment to make sure his brother was all right, the older boy padded quickly back to his own bed and climbed in, relieved. Maybe the old belief was true, and maybe it wasn't; either way, it helped his brother, and that was all that mattered.

He settled back in, and both boys were soon sound asleep. Neither of them saw the white bird return and perch on the windowsill to watch them, or saw it fly away to the West at the break of dawn.

****

\--Sue


	9. The Parting Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"You have little time to spare," Thranduil said, passing him a bundle of arrows. "I would not have Mithrandir say that we failed in our guard."

"I will make all haste," Legolas replied, pushing the arrows into the top of his pack and tying it closed. "Keep good watch, my lord." He put the pack on and made sure his quiver and bow were easy to reach. "Shall I send word once we reach Imladris?"

Thranduil shook his head, as they left the chamber together and started up towards the gate of the halls. "No. You will be back, soon, I pray."

Legolas smiled briefly, and fell silent.

The horses were already waiting, Legolas’s own grey and two others from the small Mirkwood stables. Two green-clad Elves waited also, and they bowed as the King arrived.

"Is all ready?" asked Thranduil.

"Aye, my lord," one of the Elves said.

Thranduil turned to face his son. "Ride well, and may you soon return to the leaves that await you."

"Be well, and tell the trees I will not be long," Legolas replied, as custom dictated. His father embraced him briefly.

"Go, then."

Legolas bowed, and mounted his horse. "To Imladris!" he said, and they were off. He glanced behind him briefly and saw his father standing with a hand raised in parting.

They made good time through the forest, following well-known paths. None of the three said much, their minds occupied with memories of the past few turbulent days. The news, first of the creature Gollum’s refusal to descend from his perch, then of the attack by Orcs, and finally, of the escape of their captive and the deaths of several guards, had struck the very heart of Mirkwood. Thranduil had spent hours alone in silent thought, even as the dead guards were prepared for their journey to Mandos.

As the Sun began her journey across the skies, and the ashes were dissipating in the breeze, the King had emerged from his rooms and ordered that three would ride immediately to Imladris. News of Gollum’s escape had to reach Elrond Peredhel, and through him, Mithrandir. And such was the gravity of the situation that Thranduil was sending his son and heir on the perilous journey, accompanied by two of Mirkwood’s best archers. Legolas had packed a few belongings and the horses had been prepared within an hour of the decision; a map had been found showing the High Pass over the Hithaeglir; and now they were on their way.

Night fell, and the three rode on, needing no light for this part of the journey. Around them the trees rustled murmurs of discontent, feeling the haste of the travellers and the tension in the air.

Legolas wrapped his cloak a little tighter around his body, and urged his horse into a canter. The unease of the forest was far from comforting, and for once he longed to be out in the open.

They rode through the night, and came out from under the eaves of Mirkwood at dawn. Now, for the first time, they paused. No word was spoken. Legolas dismounted and, taking his bow from his back, strung it quickly. He chose an arrow, checking the feathers and the sharpened tip before nocking and drawing, aiming at the topmost branches of the highest tree on the edge of the forest.

He shot. The arrow flew silently through the air, and the three watched its progress; watched it touch the branch, shudder, and then instead of holding fall slowly through the leaves. It should have caught on a lower branch, trapped in a net of twigs, but somehow it found a way through and finally landed point down in the ground at the base of the tree.

Legolas crossed to pick the arrow up, and replaced it in his quiver. He mounted, and silently they continued the journey. Only once did Legolas look back at his home, wondering what the future had in store for him. The parting arrow had always held before, secure in the tree, a sign that he would return. Never before had he known it fall to the ground, and with that fall, his own certainty had faded. In its place was anticipation, and fear. Legolas knew that the journey ahead would be quite unlike any journey he had ever undertaken before.

He turned his face towards the Hithaeglir ahead of them, bidding a silent farewell to Mirkwood, and the past.

****

\--Eledhwen


	10. Paving Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Faramir accompanied him as far as the Sixth Circle gate. He'd wanted to walk with him all the way to the Great Gates but Borimir wished for solitude. Too often he left in the company of large groups of men, too preoccupied to enjoy the city's quiet beauty, especially at such an early hour.

Besides, Faramir was expected in the Council this morning and returning from the Great Gates would only make him late.

They bid each other farewell with a tight hug and quiet cautions. Then, determined not to look back, Boromir spoke softly to his horse and lead the animal into the street.

'Don't look back,' he recited to himself. 'A Soldier doesn't look back.'

The paving stones in this street were some of the most striking in the city. Multiple shades of creme, brown, and, primarily, slate were laid out in random order. Scattered throughout, and least in number, were stones of nearly pure white. He wondered if Faramir still loved this street. It was too late to ask now, however.

'Don't look back.'

He tried to remember how old Faramir had been; certainly before their mother died. He couldn't remember why they had been all the way down here on their own. Walking into the street, Faramir had begun to leap from white stone to white stone. His dark hair flew about his head and he swung his balled fists with each leap. Borormir followed in a more sedate manner, too mature to make such a spectacle of himself.

After the first few mighty bounds, Faramir began to chant. "DON'T step on the BLACK or you'll FALL and break your BACK." Each two-footed landing gave meter to his rhyme.

"I see no black stones here," Boromir informed him. Faramir chose to ignore him and continued his haphazard way along the street.

After a moment Boromir tried again, "Where did you learn that rhyme?"

"EVERYbody KNOWS it, BORomir," he answered with childish scorn.

The adult Boromir finally remembered that this had been the street where Faramir's nurse lived before Finduilas retained her. She often returned to visit her family, sometimes bringing Faramir to play with the children. Faramir must have learned it from them. After their mother died, Faramir's freedoms were curtailed and the nurse soon dismissed in favor of tutors and learning self-sufficience.

Boromir watched the paving stones pass under his feet. What, to a child, would be a great leap, to a man was little more than a step. His eyes found the next white stone and he angled his course to deliberately step on it. None of the stones were very large; his two feet would completely cover this stone and it was impossible to avoid the 'black' ones. Truly a game only a child could play.

The next white stone was a little further to the other side. He lengthened his stride to reach it. Another white stone he skipped in favor of the one beyond. He was forced to add a small hop to his stride to reach it, and again for the next one.

Back at the gate, Faramir hid his bemused smile behind a hand as he watched his brother hop out of sight.

****

\--Endiliel


	11. The Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"Our time here has been well spent," Aragorn said as they walked between the towering mallorn, back toward their pavilion. "But we cannot delay our departure much longer. The road grows more perilous every day we linger here."

Boromir looked about with the frown he had worn since they had entered Lothlorien. "I will offer no argument to that."

Aragorn smiled. "I thought not. I shall try to speak with the Lord and Lady tonight. If their counsel agrees with ours, we may leave tomorrow."

"No," Boromir countered with a peculiar sharpness, stopping in his tracks. Aragorn glanced at him curiously, and the other man ducked his head to avoid his gaze. "Not tomorrow."

"Why not? I would have thought you ready to set out this very moment, if you could."

Boromir hesitated, but Aragorn did not soften his gaze, willing him to speak of whatever new oddness troubled his mind. When he did speak, Aragorn's confusion did not abate. "Tomorrow is the second day of the second month of the year."

"Yes...?." Aragorn was surprised that Boromir's time sense had remained so keen while in the Elven wood. Even he had to concentrate to remember the date in the outside world. "What difference does this make to our plans?"

Still Boromir would not look at him. "In Gondor, the second day of the second month is considered highly unlucky."

"I have heard that tradition, yes." Aragorn shook his head, still puzzled. "Boromir, forgive me, but of all the men I have known in my life, I would have counted you among the least likely to hold with such beliefs."

"I am not such a man by nature." Boromir did look at him then, brows drawn as though defying any possible mockery. "I deal with swords and men, not the prattle of the oldsters in the market. My brother, however... he knows much more of these things than I, and when he was small, he believed such tales very strongly."

Such tales often held as much truth as swords and armies, but Aragorn only nodded an encouragement to continue. "But you did not. So how did you come to believe that tomorrow is unlucky?"

Boromir hesitated, and a moment later Aragorn understood why. "Faramir cursed me."

Aragorn's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"

"I told him there was nothing different about this particular day, that bad things were no more likely to occur than on any other day, but he was young and would not be comforted. So I told him that he needn't fear it, for I would protect him, and any ill luck would have to go through me to reach him."

He trailed off, but Aragorn was intrigued now by this strange glimpse into his companion's life. "And?"

Boromir's lips quirked, belying his heavy sigh. "And it did. That very day, I fell down two flights of stairs and broke both my arms. The next year, our arms master struck me by accident in the head, rendering me unconscious for three days. The year after that, my father's elderly hunting dog bit me several times on the face while I was asleep. I still have the scars."

Aragorn fought back a laugh as Boromir indicated the scar on his brow; he had assumed it was a battle scar. No wonder Boromir had never mentioned it before.

"... that winter I had left to take up my commission, and I thought that once I was away from Faramir, whatever ill luck plagued me would cease. But in the early morning of the second day of the month, we skirmished with a small band of Southron deserters. They gave us more trouble than they should have, and I received a wound that kept me abed until high summer."

The litany went on, delivered as a solid military report in strict chronological order, and Aragorn felt his eyes blink convulsively. He snapped his mouth shut when he realized it was slightly agape, and fought off his sense of creeping horror as Boromir's recital wound to a close.

"... and then sparks blew into my field tent, setting the maps and bedrolls ablaze, and three-quarters of the camp was in ashes before we could put out the fire. That was a year ago tomorrow."

Aragorn cleared his throat and met Boromir's eyes with a carefully neutral gaze. He did not know whether to laugh or cry, but he suspected that neither reaction would be welcomed by the other man. "I see."

"Yes."

"Under the circumstances," Aragorn said slowly, calculating Boromir's possible recuperation time for falls, arrow wounds, food poisoning, and anything else that could conceivably happen to him in Lothlorien, "I think perhaps we will need more than one day to prepare for our departure. Perhaps next week."

Boromir cocked his head, but at last nodded, and they continued on their way to rejoin their companions. Next week would do. Aragorn only hoped he was not being overly optimistic.

****

\--Cori Lannam  



	12. Ties of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"Boromir," said Pippin, "Why do you have those three red cords there?" Pippin pointed to the three red cords bound around the baldric Boromir wore across his body. Plain and ordinary cords they were, neatly tied but worn and stained, and they looped the belt just above the great horn of Gondor. Even as Boromir looked down his hand went to them. Gently he rubbed the three of them together and twisted them until they appeared a braid. It was a gesture that spoke of long familiarity and Pippin nodded, eyes bright.

"You do that all the time but they don't seem to belong to you. I mean - to what else you wear."

`They were a gift," said Boromir slowly.

"Oh-oh! From a girl?"

"No, from my brother."

"Faramir," said Pippin with certainty. With typical Hobbit curiosity, he had long since ferreted out a family tree from Boromir and now he wiggled closer, hopeful of more.

Boromir let go of the cords and as they twisted apart, he carefully stroked them flat. Looking up he caught the Hobbit's eager eyes and half-smiled. This Halfling reminded him of a young Faramir, always wanting to know `why?' and `how?'.

"Yes, Faramir." He hesitated. "These are the second he gave me."

Boromir pulled his travelling bag over to him and reached into its depths. He pulled out a small, soft, leather bag and tipped it up on his hand. Out tumbled three red cords, worn to ragged strings.

"These he gave to me the first day I rode to war. Long did I wear them, through flood, battle and fire… until the very cords themselves began to unravel. They are for luck."

_He had almost finished dressing when Faramir had come slipping into his room. His sword, newly sharpened, had been strapped on by hands that shook a little at the realisation that he might next draw it to kill. He had carefully slipped on the gleaming leather baldric from which hung the great horn of Gondor. It hung by his side, a solid reminder of the weight of tradition and responsibility he must carry. Only his new cloak, a deep blue in the fashion of his company, waited its putting on when Faramir appeared. He himself looked oddly grown up in a new tunic and cloak and Boromir had smiled at his gravity even as he felt the pain of knowing that he must go away and leave this dearly beloved brother to grow up by himself. Perchance there would be little of the child left when he next saw him. He had greeted him, teased him about his fine new clothes, even given him a rough and brotherly hug but Faramir had remained almost wordless – until Boromir finally swung on his cloak and picked up his travel bag. Then Faramir had stopped him as he walked towards the door._

_"I have something for you," he said, through lips that suddenly trembled. "Ceredian said that families do this before their boys ride away."_

_Solemnly he held out his hand to show three red cords held in it. Stepping close he looped the first one around the baldric and tied it with typically neat knots._

_`One to tie you to life so you will never leave it," he almost whispered, then looped the second one above it. "One to tie you to this land so you will always return."_

_As he tied the second one Boromir looked down at the bent black head with a half-rueful smile. Father was not going to be impressed by a superstition learnt from his cook. Indeed, Boromir thought about suggesting he just put the cords in his pocket - until Faramir looked up at him as he whispered the last incantation._

_"One to tie you to those you love so they will never lose you."_

_There was faith in those grey eyes, faith and comfort found. No more than his father did Boromir believe in such a superstition but if the child found comfort in it then Boromir would wear them proudly and bear his father's wrath. He held his brother's arms in a warrior's embrace and kissed his forehead._

_"Thank you, Faramir – you will not lose me."_

"Oh," said Pippin softly, looking at the worn cords. "That's nice. Did he mind when you stopped wearing them?"

"No," Boromir answered, smiling. "He was grown up by then – too old to believe in such foolish superstitions."

`But he gave you those," Pippin said, reaching over to touch the brave display of red that Boromir wore.

"Yes," said Boromir slowly.

_Faramir had ridden with him to Forannest and they had dismounted there to take their leave. Both had been quiet, almost fey, that morning. They were both soldiers now and had ridden to death a thousand times; what is there to say when this may be the last time you will see the one you love? Standing there in the warmth of the summer sunshine, they spoke briefly of provisions and maps, of possible routes and battle strategies._

"Wait!" Faramir said, as Boromir turned to mount his horse. "I…." He reached into a tunic pocket and pulled out three red cords. He flicked the briefest of glances towards his brother with eyes as dark as storm clouds, and just as unreadable then stepped closer and began to tie the cords on once again.

"One to tie you to life so you will never leave it. One to tie you to this land so you will always return. One to tie you to those you love so they will never lose you."

Task completed, Faramir stepped back and looked almost ashamedly at his brother. Boromir gripped his shoulder and grey eyes met grey.

"Never, Faramir - never."

"And you will always keep these too, won't you?" asked Pippin, in a question which didn't require an answer.

Boromir nodded, nonetheless, as he looked down at the little figure that now leant against him. "Yes. Faramir and I need nothing to tie us together but I will keep them."

Boromir ran them through his fingers and added softly, "Perhaps one day they'll be no more needed."

****

Avon

[Avon's Stories](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confID=6&Forumid=229)


	13. Whistling Past the Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

The darkness was oppressive. The dry dust made it feel as if you could not take a full breath. Moreover, above all, there was the knowledge that we now crawled beneath the surly mountain that had defeated our efforts to cross its shoulders.

The dim glow atop the old man's staff revealed a world beneath that had been well lived in, but not for many years.

After innumerable hours of creeping beneath the mountain, wary lest any noise of our passage alert the goblin hordes that had slain the dwarf's kin, a halt was quietly called.

A chasm yawned above us, the staff's dim magical glow lost in its distance; and we stood upon a dusty path at its bottom.

Gimli put his hand upon the wizard's arm and quietly growled in his dwarven tongue. Gandalf nodded and the dwarf stepped ahead, the old man following. Other paths, just as dust covered, met ours, but we stayed close to the only light in this frighteningly open darkness. Looking up, I could almost make myself believe we were walking through a chill, still, overcast night.

From the corner of my eye, something ahead and above reflected the staff's dim glow. It was no longer a starless night, but an unsupported void under the mountain above. I shivered and clenched my jaw.

Ahead there was the ring of steel against stone. It seemed to echo in the vastness, but more so in my own ears than in the emptiness that swallowed it. There was tense mutterings of alarm among the Halflings and a quiet whisper as the ringbearer slid his short sword partway from its sheath. The Ranger clasped my shoulder and nodded when he met my eye, then slid forward. I looked behind, straining for any sign that the noise had awakened some as yet unmet horror.

The Ranger, Gimli and the old man talked animatedly in hushed tones. There was the sound of cloth quietly torn. The old man or the dwarf may have been hurt.

In the dim glow, I could now make out a staircase hewn from the wall of the chasm. Our path ended where it began. Perhaps the iron-shod dwarf had stubbed his toe on the bottom stair.

A quiet snort that may have been amusement or derision came from the elf, then he gazed silent up into the darkness, obviously seeing what we mortals could not.

The ranger nodded to Gimli who hefted his axe in one hand. The Halflings and I reached for our weapons, but Legolas motioned that there was no concern. The dwarf brought the haft of the axe down smartly upon the step before him. I froze, but there was nothing but a muffled thud. He nodded at the Ranger, then began climbing the stair, bringing his axe down upon each step. The old man went next, then the elf, gazing up the steep, narrow stairs as he confidently climbed. The Halflings were next. Their broad feet did not fit upon the dwarf-made stair, so they used their hands, ascending as if it were a stone ladder.

The Ranger had stood aside to take up the rear guard with me. I looked up the stairs, lit only by the staff's dim glow. The steps were shallow, but square and solid in the center. To either side they were crumbling and rounded off, where the dwarf struck with his axe haft. I could make out ledges hewn into the chasm wall, to the right and left of the stair, disappearing into the darkness.

I looked quizzically at the Ranger, but he motioned me upward while we could still make out our path.

Quickly, I found the Halflings were correct. One hand, or better two, upon the steep shallow steps ahead made the climb easier.

Fifty, one hundred, two hundred steps, I found myself counting them to the muffled beat of Gimli's axe. Ahead, the Halflings gasped. I looked up at them, gritting my teeth as my head swam for a second, then saw what they had seen. The ledges to either side were now inhabited.

Seated figures gazed out into the void. Some gazed down at us upon their stair. Some were headless; some had skeletal remains lying at their feet.

Tombs. This was Moria's graveyard, and the goblins had taken from its inhabitants freely.

I felt a tap upon my heel as the Ranger urged me forward.

He whispered "I could cushion his axe haft so he would not alert the goblins as he announced his passage to his ancestors, but we are not silent in our progress. Urge the Halflings on. We must not linger upon these stairs."

I swallowed dryly and nodded. You must take every step in the White Tower. You must touch every crenellation as you walk along the Shipwall.

I too did not want any ill fate to meet me upon these stairs. I silently prayed to the stars above the mountain that Gimli had not missed a single step.

****  
\--Shunt  
You can leave comments for me [here](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=6&forumId=207) or at jmueller01@comcast.net  



	14. Magpies and Rhymes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

A/N:

This is based on the first three lines of a rhyme, normally used upon seeing mynahs or magpies. It has, in some parts, become a superstition in its own right - :  
 _One for sorrow,  
Two for joy,  
Three for a letter,  
Four for a boy _

Letter is usually taken to imply any news from a loved one.

****

The view from the window was of a seemingly quiet and peaceful city. So quiet did it appear, that for a few brief seconds one could be deluded into forgetting that war might descend upon them any day. But then, Faramir knew quite well that a storm was invariably preceded by calm weather. He did, after all, come from a long line of sailors on his mother’s side. And it seemed strangely fitting that he now awaited an audience with his father. If not actually stormy, the proceedings could certainly leave a cloud over any who met the steward these days.

It was cold in his father’s study. The window was open and the grate, unlit. Minas Tirith could get quite chilly even when the winter was dying out for the winds from the north blew across it unfettered and the icy coldness they carried seemed, to him, to seep into everything.

A raucous screeching interrupted such sombre, disjointed musings. It rose out of the trees in the garden below. Magpies, he deduced, and was more than a little surprised, for spring was as yet approaching. They flew out of the branches, still screeching, and landed on a parapet below the window. He could see a cat clawing at the trunk of the tree. Then his eyes settled on the magpies once again. There were three of them.

_“Three for a letter,”_ the squeaky voice of his youngest cousin spoke up in his head. The long forgotten rhyme came back to him as the noisy birds scattered and flew off elsewhere. The cat slinked off somewhere.

“One for sorrow, Two for Joy, Three for a letter,” he chanted softly to himself. The verse made him smile as much for the memory of childhood as for the hope that it might come true.

_Three for a letter…_

The cloud seemed to lift and his mood lightened. He shook his head, smiling a little at how the childish notion had suddenly gripped him, and continued pacing up and down the room as he waited. But the next time his steps carried him near the window, his eyes strayed towards the great gates of the city; looking for a carrier, an errand rider, or anyone who might carry the news all of them had awaited for months; he, more than most. His brother was not much of a letter writer, and more so on a long journey, but he might have passed some word along in some manner.

***

“I would have you return to Ithilien soon. There are reports of movement along Harad Road. Men marching north, I am told.” Denethor’s mood, when he arrived, was much as he had expected it to be. But he found he didn’t mind it as much as he had thought he might have.

The screeching sounded out again even as Faramir nodded and glanced down at the map on the table. He could sense a frown on his father’s face as his head swivelled instinctively towards the window.

_Three for a letter…_

Perhaps today they might hear some news of him, any news. A dry cough interrupted his reverie and he immediately shut out thoughts of magpies and rhymes. A look of barely suppressed impatience flashed across his father’s face.

The screeching continued even as Denethor recommenced speaking. Wind rustled through dry leaves. Each sound seemed to get amplified in the small, cold room. A draught of icy cold air swept in, causing one edge of the map to fold over. Denethor brought his hand down to hold it in place. Outside, the magpies seemed to have subdued a little.

“May I shut the window, Father?”

It was an unnecessary question and his father obviously seemed to think as much. The screeching had stopped by the time he reached the window.

_Three for a letter…_

On the parapet below sat a single magpie, silently preening its feathers.

The faint sound came from the north, and he knew at once that it was not that of the wind; it was too deep. Deep enough to be the mighty bellow of his brother’s war-horn. But it was dim, so dim that he wondered if he was merely hearing more from the past. The shiver that ran up his spine was not due to the stiff breeze alone.

A shadow fell over him and he turned to see his father standing by his shoulder. One glance at his face was enough for Faramir to know that what he had heard was not imagination, but reality.

On the parapet the magpie hopped impatiently from one foot to another.

_“One for sorrow,”_ the squeaky voice from his childhood spoke up. The cloud that had lifted briefly, fell back in place.

****  
\--Acacea


	15. Foretacn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beasts of battle motif (the depiction of the wolf, raven, and eagle in scenes of warfare) is stolen shamelessly from Germanic literature and modified to suit my own ends. For examples of it in Old English literature -- which I farmed for this fic -- see especially Beowulf, The Battle of Maldon, and Judith. The title is an Old English word that usually refers to a portent or sign of future events.

Author's Note: The beasts of battle motif (the depiction of the wolf, raven, and eagle in scenes of warfare) is stolen shamelessly from Germanic literature and modified to suit my own ends. For examples of it in Old English literature -- which I farmed for this fic -- see especially Beowulf, The Battle of Maldon, and Judith. The title is an Old English word that usually refers to a portent or sign of future events.

****

Scyld spurred Stormshower over the rise. The grey responded reluctantly, topping the crest of the hill and flying down it at close to full speed. Just behind him the other members of the eored rode; Byrhthelm and his Fleetwind raced at Stormshower's flank, the chestnut's nose nearly even with the cantle of Scyld's saddle. From the corner of his eye Scyld could see the dialated nostrils, the sweat rubbed into foam by the leather of Fleetwind's bridle.  
  
And ahead of him, a spear of white in the darkness, rode the old Pilgrim, Gandalf, upon great Shadowfax. Erkenbrand and Wulf kept close pace to Shadowfax's near side. Ahead of them, coming closer all the time, was the dawnlight, a thin and bloody strip against the rolling horizon. Scyld saw that band widen, wondered how much time there was left.

As if in answer, above the din of hooves on turf, though, Scyld heard a deeper, more ominous thunder -- battle, he thought. His pulse beat faster now, faster even than the swift pounding of Stormshower's running. A forest stood hard to their north, a forest he could not remember being there. They would have to dismount; the trees were narrowing swiftly, pressing them closely up against the outcroppings of rock that formed the western edge of the coomb. The dawn played cruelly with the eyes, tricking the horses into stumbling over stones and shadows.

Erkenbrand raised one gauntleted hand, and Scyld obediently brought Stormshower to a halt. Behind him, the rest of the eored slid to a quick stop and dismounted. Quelling a surge of anxiety, Scyld did the same.

"Let them go," Erkenbrand ordered, his voice hoarse with the strain of the wind and the ride. "We'll have to go on foot -- we can't risk broken legs and a pile-up if the lead horses fall."

Scyld absently stroked the flat expanse between Stormshower's eyes, smiling as the horse leaned into the caress. When he had first gotten the horse, a trade from a shifty man near the border of Gondor, it had been head-shy and unwilling, but now so valiant a fighter! An extra pair of eyes -- and two extra pairs of legs: that was the standing joke amongst the eoreds, but in times like this, it was not so much a joke as a much-needed truth. Fighting on two legs was almost foreign to Scyld.

Wordlessly, he gave Stormshower the command to turn and head for home. The horse left obediently along with the rest of his compatriots. All the horses trotted out in loose formation, vanishing back into the dying night, all the horses save Shadowfax, who waited proudly and did not look winded in the least.

And all about them the forest loomed. Scyld drew his sword and pulled his shield closer to his body. He knew infantry tactics, knew and did not like them: there was something terrifying and claustrophobic about being trapped under a shield wall while being pelted by a hail of arrows. Not moving, pinned down with no room to breathe... The forest pressed closer, as though the trees actually moved.

As he peered about, dimly aware of Godwin standing behind him, he saw something.

It was grey and furtive, flitting about the shadows at the edge of the forest. Two great golden eyes, gathering in the scant light, glinted unexpectedly. Scyld followed its movement, swallowed past a dry throat as he registered the lean and hungry frame under the thick brush of grey fur.

A carrion wolf, the worst kind that haunted battlefields, waiting for its turn at the banquet. He could almost smell the blood on the wolf's breath; the imagined sensation spurred a memory of a foal brought down by a pack, a trio of wolves leaving the feast, and a lone scavenger coming up to pick over the bones.

A sharp croak and a shrill scream broke Scyld from the memory. There, almost overhead -- surely the trees were moving -- were an eagle and raven. The raven was almost invisible against the blackness, only his wings and the beady disk of his eye picked out by dawnlight. Next to him the eagle, resplendent in dew, shook moisture from his feathers and screamed again. It seemed to stoop over the waiting company, hovering; the raven's beady eye fixed Scyld with a knowing look.

_I will very likely die,_ he thought. His shield seemed like parchment to him, his sword a stick, a child's toy. There had been a poet, an old man, who had said any man who saw these three animals together would share in death with one of them. _A wolf gave death to my friend; the wan raven, the dark eagle, bore another away._

"What do you see?" The faint breath of Godwin's question nearly did Scyld in.

"A... nothing." It was bad enough to see the omen of his death; he was not going to spread it around. Godwin seemed to be looking where he had been -- could he see the wolf? Scyld thought he could see it plainly as day. Overhead the raven and eagle kept their expectant vigil, and the raven cawed dolorously...

... but no other Rider, not Godwin or Erkenbrand or Gandalf, looked  
up.

Erkenbrand signaled for the warriors to form up and they did so, joining into a long, narrow column. Scyld found himself on the side closest to the forest and, as they began to march, saw that the wolf was keeping pace with them. Above him two black forms glided, silent and silhouetted against the greying sky.

And in this manner they made their way through the edge of the coomb until they peered over the bowl of Helm's Deep. Scyld swallowed his fear, though the wolf ghosted through the rocks now and the raven perched atop a boulder. He went by them, like a man passing through a gateway, and as the sun rose, making of Gandalf and Shadowfax a pillar of light, Scyld also saw the dark eagle floating on an updraft above the battle.

Incongruously, as the charge began and he lifted up a battle cry to match Erkenbrand's, Scyld thought of Stormshower, flying away back west.

* * *

\--HF

Further notes:

It's an interesting detail in "Helm's Deep" that when Erkenbrand and Gandalf show up with reinforcements, the troops are not mounted:

'There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in white, shining in the rising sun. Over the low hills the horns were sounding. Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men on foot; their swords were in their hands." (Houghton-Mifflin TPB, 529)

When I discovered this, in re-reading to get my orientation and timeline right, the story suddenly became much longer.  



	16. Crow and Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Ithilien lay perfectly still under the warming sunlight. A soft, yet comforting breeze swayed the leaves in trees both tall and small, and the scent of flowers and honey filled the air with the sweetest of fragrances. It seemed as though the world still slumbered in a peaceful dream, for even the rangers hiding in ambush were motionless and silent. Yet, their restless eyes revealed it was not calmness they felt, but apprehension.

Anborn chewed on his lip, muttering something under his breath as he shifted his weight over his other leg, quickly glancing around him toward his comrades, equally restless and wakeful, though none of them seemed to move. Something he felt in the air, but could not quite place what it was. The land was enveloped in such an expectant calm that it turned dreadful, ominous; unbearable.

" 'Tis not natural," he whispered as he slid under the leaves, his body blending with the shades of the forest until, in a few strides, he was at the side of Damrod and Ethir. "What make you of it?" he asked, gesturing for them to look around.

"Of what?" asked Damrod.

"This wretched calm, of course! 'Tis too peaceful; so peaceful that not even the birds have noticed. It is never so before battle, when the very land lays in watchful expectation, but not peace!"

"Aye, and I don't think it bodes well," Ethir murmured while glancing suspiciously behind, only to find a spider dangling from a leaf.

"I know naught about omens and such, but something queer goes on. Whether it bodes good or ill, I know not."

"Ill fate will indeed befall us," said Damrod, "if you get so easily distracted by your supposed signals. You must pay more attention to our errand. Whatever your feelings portend, they will not justify poor developments in battle, or so says the Captain." Their eyes, then, quickly turned to Faramir, who lay in hiding amid some bushes a few paces away. Mablung, who knelt beside him, caught their stares at once, but the Captain's eyes were fixed toward some point in the western horizon that they could not make out. He had often heard him tell the new men that they should heed their feelings or whatever signs they received, but not in the silly way that men trusted in fate's callings blindly and without reason. `Nature,' he had said, `speaks all the time, but some know not how to read her signals and often confuse them. It would avail to nothing if nature would warn and one would sit idle, waiting. What one does with the warning is what's important.' But suddenly, Anborn was shaken from his recollection by a loud croak. Leaves stirred in several places, but all other sounds seemed to have been drowned.

"Croak!" came the rasping cry again, and then more silence. Only the faint murmur of `Two' was heard.

"Croak!" came the sound yet a third time, even louder than before, and now there was no chance for mistake.

"Crow!" snarled Ethir, gripping his knife tightly.

"Would that we had not heard that!" hissed Damrod. "A crow's croak never bodes well."

"And, to hear it thrice is even worse!" Ethir cried, trying to keep his emotions checked. "Three times singing, ill news bringing. Calls the crow, death will bow- or so they say."

"Ssshh!" scolded Mablung. "Of course death comes; we are about to give battle! Speak not so loud, lest you sway all our hearts into your fears! Be not eager to invite ill fortune."

"Not ill fortune, but the crow may warn us to be wary," Faramir said, his voice deep and firm, but with the usual tinge of hope. "Besides," he added, and through his mouth fleeted the ghost of a smile, "the crow calls, but we know not for whom. Two sides fight this battle today." Grim chuckles followed that, and Anborn understood at once that he attempted to strengthen their hearts and divert their fears; however, he also noticed the brevity of his smile, the tautness of his shoulders, or the sharpness of the stare ere it turned back to that unidentified point in the horizon. What were the Captain's thoughts at that moment, none could tell, but his face was stern and his glance seemed to peer through the distance. Anborn strained his eyes, too; mayhap their foes were already approaching, or had Faramir read something in that crow's call?

But, nothing happened, and silence weighed on them again. Biting his lip and scolding himself for his ingenuity and lack of trust, he rose, ready to resume his seat by Halador, when a new sound made him stiffen. It was shrill and carried long and high before the breeze blew it away.

"It is no crow," Faramir replied as he rose, his keen glance still fixed toward the west. "No crow, but a raven.

"A raven! The call of the raven is a message!" Ethir gasped in relief; but, distress was soon painted on his features. "What message could it bring?"

"I trust it is no ill tiding," Faramir said, his voice timed and steady, yet his gaze had narrowed and he leaned forward eagerly. "But, look! We shall know soon enough." He pointed toward a thin column of grey smoke that rose from a nearby glade in the direction where he had been staring. Then they heard a whistle which was answered by three more: their own signal. Someone was close.

"Mablung, Damrod! Go through that side closer to the fern, while Anborn and I creep through the left. Stealthily and slowly, 'til we know who it is." Then, as Faramir grabbed his bow to depart, Anborn heard him whisper the remainder of Ethir's rhyme, "Morning ringing, raven creeping. Message comes, heed and go!" His lips twitched upwards, and Anborn caught a flicker in his eyes. Grabbing his spear, he followed the Captain, and suddenly it mattered not how many crows croaked in Ithilien.

****  
\--Starlight  
[My forum](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=139)


	17. Elven Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"I don't get it." The two orcs sauntered towards the wall, searching for  
a place to eat. They finally settled into the last bit of shade.  
"Don't get what, Breg?"  
"You." Breg began eating. "I mean, you been here at Minas Morgul for, what, three years?"  
"Yeah, so?"  
"Well, Gursh, _they_ never seem to come around when you're on watch."  
"Who d'ya mean, they?" Gursh swallowed a chunk of raw meat.  
"You know, _them_."  
"You mean the Nazgul?" Gursh started gnawing a bone.  
"Don't say that! They'll hear you."  
"Ha!" Gursh began sucking marrow. "I got a charm against 'em."  
"The hell you do."  
"I do. You wanna see?"  
"Maybe." Breg gulped some ale. "An' maybe you ain't nothin' but a liar."  
"You're the one who said you didn't get it." Gursh threw the finished bone away.  
"Awwright." Breg cracked open a bone. "I guess I do wanna see."  
Gursh wiped his hands on his breeches, then began to unbutton his shirt. Slowly, dramatically, he peeled it away from his skin. There, sewn neatly next to the row of buttons, was an elven arrow.  
"Where the hell did you get that?"  
Gursh refastened his shirt. "My brother, Grank. He got it on patrol. Killed a whole mess of elves, they did."  
"Grank is dead!"  
"Yeah, but not because of no Nazgul. He got inna fight with his old lady, and she brained him."  
Breg froze.  
"What?"  
"We're gonna see right now if that arrow of yours works." Gursh turned. There, slowly coming along the wall, was a Nazgul. The other orcs shrank as he passed, cowering away from the black-robed figure. Slowly, steadily, the Nazgul drew closer. He stopped a dozen paces away, fingering his sword as he studied the orcs at his feet. For a few moments neither Gursh nor Breg moved. Then as silently as he came, the Nazgul turned and walked away.  
"Gursh?"  
"Yeah?"  
"You got another one of them arrows?"

finis

****

\--Khazar  



	18. Raise a Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Hurrying through the now deserted streets, Æthelwyn gasped for breath as she glimpsed the door to her house. With a quick thud she opened it, and just as fast closed it again, leaning against it as if to keep away an unseen evil. Her face must have pictured something akin to terror, for at once her mother was at her side, stroking her hair; her sister, Alwunn had rushed to her with a cup of water; and her grandmother rose from the chair, eyes wide in silent yet painful expectation.

"Well, child?" her mother asked, her voice shrill but firm.

"Well, what?" Æthelwyn managed to ask while trying to drink the water at the same time. Her hand shook as she gripped the cup, and she could not help but veil her eyes while pressing herself hard against the door.

"Pray, speak at once!" Alwunn urged her. "What has caused such a deadly paleness to come upon you? Do sit now, and tell the full tale from the beginning."

"Forgive me," she whispered as she lowered herself onto the chair. "But, it will be too hard to know where this tale begins, and of its end... none can tell now; not among the living."

"What is it you say?" Athelfled asked, unable to conceal her increasing distress. "Speak not of the dead and let them rest in peace. Do not meddle in such business, daughter!"

"It is true, mother," she said, trying to keep her voice steady but all the while fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt. "The heir of Kings rides away today, and the grey-eyed men from the North go with him... to Dwimorberg."

"Help us, Béma!" her grandmother cried, and her mother and sister both held their breaths.

"Is this so?" Athelfled asked at length, more to himself than to her. "How can you be certain of it? Does the lady Eowyn know?"

"Aye, she does, and I caught sight of her face from afar, both pale and grave."

"Much resembling yours, I should say," Alwunn whispered as she knelt beside her. "And, still I wish they would not go through that road. Only death lies beyond the Dark Door. The dead suffer none to pass!"

"That I know!" Æthelwyn leaned forward in eagerness, but quickly lowered her head when she felt a stinging sensation in her eyes, and a familiar heat rise through her cheeks. She was about to cry; but, a daughter of the Mark should be brave in face of danger and not weep for warriors' errands, lest their hearts failed and they returned not in honor. Pressing her hands against her lap, she took a deep breath ere she said, "Only death... yet they are so fair and noble. It would be but a shame that such kind men would meet their fates beyond the eaves of Dimholt..."

"Yet they have chosen their own road; there's no reason to lament now," her mother chided, but her voice was low and deep. "What think you, Leofwen?" she asked as she looked at the old lady who sat with her hands clenched in a knot in front of her. "And you say the lady Eowyn knows?"

"She does. I think she asked the lord not to go, but he heeded her not. Just ere I went away, she offered him a cup and he drank from it; a sign of his parting, or so I deem."

At those words, her grandmother sprang up from her chair. "A cup! Quickly, Athelfled, ere the sun climbs up! Bring more water and four cups, while I cover the chairs."

At once, the three women busied themselves, while Æthelwyn was left to wonder about their preparations. Her mother had run to fetch a pitcher and cups, whilst Alwunn and her grandmother placed blankets, books and other objects on the chairs that were empty.

"What is all this?" she asked as her mother placed a cup filled with cold water on her hand. "Why the chairs? What-"

"If the dead are to be woken, they shall not find seat on the chairs in our house, nor will we give them entrance or shelter. No evil spirit shall come while the chairs are covered," Athelfled said as she filled cups for the others. "As to the water, you know what that is for." Alas, for she did. Her mother had not yet finished, when Leofwen began to recite the words of a verse she had long known, so often had she sang it when her father, or brothers, or her own dear Oswine rode into battle. Holding the cup as firmly as she was able, her voice joined her grandmother's.

When a warrior goes away  
raise a cup and drink his health  
Sips of water and of ale  
Will protect and speed his way.

If his leave is in the morning  
water clear to ease his going;  
If he takes road near the eve  
ale his burdened heart relieves.

And thus, they drank. Her thoughts turned to Oswine and how she had seen him last, tall and fair as he waved his farewell before riding into battle. Not very different he was from those men of the North who rode to their dooms with uplifted faces and brave hearts. The war had brought such evil, grief and loss! Her heart wept inside of her for all those who would yet suffer, and her wishes went to the grey travelers for a safe journey. She took a sip, and the water felt cold in her throat, but nonetheless she drank on. Her prayers had saved Oswine before. If her prayers could also save those men, then she would raise her cup.

****

\--Starlight  
[My forum](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=139)


	19. A Knot for Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Ioreth bent over her smallest patient, a frown of worry creasing her brow. All three were in deep crisis, but as bad as Lord Faramir's condition was, the Lady Eowyn and her halfling squire concerned her even more. Such was the gravity of their conditions that the Warden had assigned both she and the Lady Lothiriel to watch the three of them alone, despite the number of other casualties in the Houses. He had admitted to Ioreth he was terrified he would have to inform both King Elessar and Mithrandir that all three victims of the Nazgul were dead, and that therefore both women were to devote themselves to them with complete single-mindedness.

They had checked on Lord Faramir first, stroking his feverish brow with mint water to cool him. Then they rubbed sweet-smelling salve into Lady Eowyn’s shattered arm and tied splints onto it, so it would mend well even if she did not awaken. Finally, they came to the halfling, both of them tired and increasingly frightened. Neither woman was willing to voice the thought that their efforts were useless, a feeble struggle to hold back coming disaster. They stared down at the childish figure, at a loss for what they might do for him, as little as that might be.

"Will they survive long enough for the Warden to treat them?" asked Lothiriel. Ioreth felt grateful that she was present, for her skills with herbs were considerable. But were they sufficient to recall this suffering soul to life?

"I do not know," Ioreth said grimly. "I have never seen anything quite like this, my lady . . .and I have seen much. Never before have I been asked to treat those touched by the Black Breath’s poison."

A harsh whisper of breath escaped from the halfling's chest. His lips began to turn blue as his skin seemed to whiten and blanch still more, giving him a ghostly, unreal appearance. Lothiriel sprang to her feet, snatched up a small mirror, and held it before his mouth. After what seemed an eternity, a faint film of mist formed on the mirror’s surface, but even as they saw the evidence he still lived, his wheezing breath began to fill the chamber with a foreboding sound that grated on Ioreth's ears.

Lothiriel looked up from where she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes panic-stricken. "Meriadoc will not live for much longer! Is there nothing we can do?"

“Let me think for a moment, my lady, I beg you! I have learned so many things over the years, and there must be something we can do for him before it is too late!”

Ioreth dropped her head and dug through the dusty corners of her memory, trying to remember all that her grandmother, and the senior healers whom she had trained with, had taught her. She stared at the floor as a faint memory from long ago struggled to the surface. What was it—one could do something to the sheet of a patient's bed . . . Her head jerked back up as a sudden wild hope surfaced from the depths.

"Tie a knot! A knot, in the corner of his sheet! Hurry!"

"What? I don't understand--" Lothiriel stammered.

"The knot will keep him tied to life, to this world! So my grandmother taught me when I was small!" Ioreth reached down, snatched the bedding up, and pulled the sheet out. With fumbling fingers, she tied a large knot in the corner, leaving it to dangle free.

"It will work, Lady Lothiriel, I know it will! Trust me," Ioreth gasped.

"I believe you. Shall we do the same for Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn?"

"Yes. You go and tend to it. I shall stay here with this valiant halfling."

Lothiriel hurried off. Ioreth stood next to Merry's bed. Without thinking, she caught up the knot in her hand and twisted it over and over as she silently prayed to the Valar to spare this young one's life.

*****  
\--Regina

This is based on a real superstition--one of my clients is a ICU nurse, and she has told me that all the nurses, including her, will tie a knot in a sheet corner if a patient is doing badly.  



	20. The Gift of a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

It had only taken a day for Merry to decide that this was his favorite corner of the gardens at the Houses of Healing. Most of the rest he found almost oppressively formal, but this little nook had run half-wild with the sorts of bright, undemanding flowers that he recognized from gardens in the Shire. If he tired, which happened much more often than he liked, there was a stone bench in the midst of it, and it was surprisingly comfortable.

Pippin seemed to disagree. No sooner did he sit down than he sprang up again, frowning. "I have a present for you," he announced.

Merry regarded him skeptically for a long while. The last time Pippin had looked so uncomfortable when offering a present, the gift in question had been a pipe box with a dead grass snake coiled inside. Fatty Bolger had put him up to it, but Pippin nearly backed out of the plot several times. By the time he finally gave Merry the box, the snake had been pretty ripe. Merry stuck his hands deep in his pockets and said, "It's nothing that we're both going to regret, I hope?"

If anything, Pippin looked even more miserable. "You know I'm leaving tomorrow and I thought...well, since your sword burned up when...oh, I'm making such a botch of this!" He pulled a long, cloth- wrapped bundle from under the bench. "Here. I know it's nothing like as good as the one you lost, but you may need a new one if..."

If no one came back from the Black Gate, if Frodo and Sam didn't make it to Mt. Doom, if he had to fight again when everything was lost. Merry nodded, trying to summon up a reassuring smile, but he didn`t dare say anything for a moment. When he was sure he could control his voice, he said, "That was a good idea, Pip. I certainly don't want to be outshone by that livery of yours when we get back to the Shire. Let's have a look at it then."

Pippin held out the bundle to him. Just as he was about to touch it, Pippin snatched it away. "No! No, wait!"

"Pippin, this isn't another snake, is it?" said Merry, as Pippin set the present on the ground and frantically searched his pockets.

"No, Merry, I swear it really is a knife." By this time, he was turning his pockets inside out, and still finding nothing.

"What is it you need? Maybe I could lend it to you."

Pippin shook his head. "I think that would be cheating. Besides, I know I have one here somewhere. Aha!" He pulled out a penny from his shirt pocket and laid it on the bundle. "There, now you can have it."

Merry put the penny in his own pocket, untied the strings that held the bundle together and drew out the long knife. It wasn't as ancient or as beautiful as the one that was destroyed, but it was a good knife nonetheless. "Thank you, Pippin. But what was all that fuss about the penny?"

Turning just a little red, Pippin said, "It's just something Nurse told me. `If you give a knife as a gift, you must always give a penny with it.' She'd roast me in the coals and serve me with horseradish sauce if I forgot to do it."

Merry laughed. "We can't have that. Everybody knows that Tooks should be served with mushroom gravy, not horseradish. But apart from being cooked with the wrong sauce, what sort of calamity is the penny supposed to ward off?"

The merriment died out of his cousin's eyes. "The penny is to make sure the knife doesn't cut our friendship apart. That was why I remembered it, because I didn't want to take any chances. Not now."

"Gandalf was right; you _are_ a fool of a Took," said Merry, setting aside the knife. "There aren't enough knives in all of Middle Earth to cut the bond between us." He hesitated before continuing. Perhaps he was tempting fate by speaking of such things to someone who was marching off to battle, but he thought Pippin needed to hear it anyway. "I will always be your friend, Peregrin Took, and all the superstitions in Middle Earth can't change that. Even if the worst happens, we'll still be friends."

Pippin gave him a weak smile and said, "I know that, but it never hurts to make sure."

"I suppose not," said Merry, returning the smile. He pulled out the penny again and held it up for a closer look. "But what I don't understand is how a penny is supposed to prevent all this. Surely it's a little small to be any use as a shield."

"And I can't quite see the Valar taking it as a bribe, can you?"

"Pippin! Watch your tongue!" said Merry, struggling not to laugh at that bit of irreverence. Pip was still Pip, even with the world teetering on the edge of destruction. "Come on; let's go get those apples you hid in my pack before you think up anything worse to say.

****  
\--Salsify

email comments to jmb9200@aol.com


	21. Chain of Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Éowyn stood in the gardens of the Houses of Healing and looked east. White on white, stark against a darkened sky she stood—though she lacked the height of Minas Tirith's great tower, she had never lacked its pride, or so she thought, and yet felt no thrill to think it. No longer. She had woken emptied of grief, emptied of pride, empty... empty of everything, it seemed. It had all died with Dernhelm on the fields below, and she was not certain, now, what remained.

"Do not say such things!" her brother had frowned when she had told him that. "There is much left, now that the Worm is gone. We shall speak of this when I return." So he had said, and embraced her fiercely, as was his way, and then, though the worry had not been struck from his eyes, he had smiled that boyish grin of his and gone. _When I return._ She wished she could believe it, but knew very well that he spoke only as all men did who rode to war. One did not speak of death, of farewells, of last times, of 'if.' 'If' was forbidden, lest the speaking spur doom to come looking for one, and Éomer knew better than to tempt fate more than he already did. Their father's death had taught him that much caution.

And of a sudden, thinking of her father, she remembered in a flash being lifted up to kiss his cheek as he had sat his horse by the gates of Aldburg. Her breath caught, for it seemed such a fragile memory, so long buried, and she feared that to grasp after it too eagerly might destroy it. Her mother had been there, and had lifted her up to him. His beard had tickled when she had kissed him, and she had... she had...

_Flowers!_ That was it. Mayhap it was the many tight-furled blossoms in the garden here that brought them back to mind, but she remembered now pressing a chain of them into Éomund's hand. "I did ten, Da," her child's voice echoed in her head. "Ten good wishes." It had been so long ago, and the women of Edoras did not weave flower chains for their menfolk, blessing each with a good memory to bring their loved ones home. So long since she had been that little girl, for she had put away her childhood early. She had not made a chain since her father's death, and certainly she had made none for Dernhelm, knowing full well then that she and all her people rode for death. _But I am still here..._

Later that day, Faramir walked in the gardens, and his course turned instinctively east as well. _Shall they come again?_ he wondered, and felt the clench of fear in his breast, thinking of his uncle and cousin, and of his Rangers—as many as had been fit to go—and the King, and too many other good men. With a sigh, he turned away from the dreadful view, but as he did so, his eye caught on something and he frowned. Sitting atop the low wall, held carefully in place by a number of small rocks (likely what had caught his attention), was a ring of flowers. Little yellow buds from the grass, where the gardeners had not yet weeded, all of them set painstakingly into a circlet, and prevented from blowing away by the pebbles that pressed their stems to each other. Ten he counted, and frowned, wondering whether he ought to remove them ere the gardeners did. But they were bright against the pallor of the white stone rail, a glad if odd sight, and after a moment's more consideration, he left them where they lay. An offering they seemed, and he would not disturb them. Reaching out, he touched one of the soft-petaled blossoms, and a smile tugged at his lips. _A bit of sunshine, if the old riddle's true, and who does not need it?_ With a final look east, the Steward of Gondor retired for the afternoon.

****  
\--Dwimordene  
Comments? dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com  
HASA members, please leave comments [here.](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=33)

Thank you!


	22. Fear of Flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

They were sitting on the grass, their backs to the East, waiting. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and Éowyn closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she could feel herself the object of the steward’s cool regard. She turned to face him.

"Is there something the matter?" she said.

"Only that you seem weary this morning, Éowyn. Did you not sleep well?"

_So calm, his voice_ , she thought, _so tempting. If I let it, it could overpower me_. Something within hit out at that. _Fight or flight?_ she wondered.

"I slept," she said impatiently, "but I dreamed."

He did not reply. When she looked at him again, he was picking at the grass. The lines at his eyes and mouth had deepened further.

"They say," she offered, and saw him look up at the sound of her voice, "that if you tell another of your dreams, then they come true. Would you tell another your dreams, if you thought that would make them come true?"

"To rule my own end?" Something she did not understand passed across his face. He plucked a blade of grass. "What did you dream, Éowyn?"

"I dreamed..." she hesitated. "I dreamed that I stood at the edge of a precipice. All before me was in darkness, and what lay behind me I did not know. Everything within me told me to stand my ground – but I stepped forwards. And I fell."

"And then?"

"And then I woke up."

He twisted the piece of grass between his forefingers, waited.

"’Tis a foolish superstition," she concluded. "A tale old women and children tell. The truth of the matter is that we walked long high up on the walls yesterday, and then you made me eat too well before I slept."

He smiled. "Perhaps there is another meaning to your dream," he said. "Perhaps you were not falling, but flying. Perhaps that is what will happen." He turned his head slightly towards the East. "Men are, at times, _not_ masters of their fates. There are times when you must refuse whatever fortune leaves you on the highway – but also times when you must seize it."

_If I stepped forward, would I fall or fly?_

She reached out and took the blade of grass from him. "What makes you so certain?" she said.

He smiled at her, sadly.

"I know more than a little about dreams, Éowyn," he said.

****  
\--Altariel  



	23. Father of the Bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

It is bad luck for any menfolk to see the bride before the ceremony, although I do not know why. I hadn't thought about it much before today but now I want to know: what will happen if I see Arwen? Would she change her mind? Would she come to Valinor with me? Or would she die?

I decide I cannot risk it and I doubt I would get very far anyway since Galadriel is with her, helping her to get ready. I am ready - I am dressed anyway - but I am not ready. How can I ever be ready to give my daughter up?

I wonder, if Celebrían was here, what she would think of this. She would probably tell me to stop thinking on it and be glad that Arwen is happy. Thinking of Celebrían reminds me of my own wedding day. Celeborn conspired with me to see Celebrían before we were allowed...

 

__

Elrond wondered for a moment why he was climbing the outside of his own house, rather than walking through the hallways, until he remembered both his future wife and future mother-in-law. He was slightly scared of Galadriel. She had a look on her face that seemed to say 'if you hurt my daughter, I'll hurt you' and looked as if she could carry through with it as well. She had very pointedly shut the door in his face earlier and told him not to come back. So he wasn't going to get to see Celebrían that way.

Celeborn had laughed when Elrond told him what his wife had said. And then he'd suggested an alternative route. Which Elrond, in a fit of madness, had carried out. What he was doing now was dangerous, should he fall, and Celebrían would not be happy if he came to their wedding broken and bruised. The reward of seeing her would justify his efforts, however.

Reaching the window, he pulled himself onto the small ledge, hoping it would hold his weight. Feeling secure - or at least as secure as it was possible to feel when standing on tiptoes, two storeys above the ground - he edged towards the window. When he got close enough to lean over and peer inside he found the curtains were closed. There was not even a crack between them to allow him to see in.

Sighing, and wondering if there was another method he could try, his grip slipped and his precarious position was lost. Unable to stop himself from falling, he was glad there was a flower bed beneath him. Unluckily, he managed to land on a particularly thorny rosebush, which protested by pricking him with its thorns before lowering him to the ground. He let out a cry and caught a glimpse of his bride at the window above before Celeborn rescued him. They spent the next hour picking out all the thorns and trying to clean his clothes, not to mention preparing themselves to face Galadriel's wrath for their antics.

 

 

 

Technically, Celebrían had seen me, rather than the other way round. Perhaps it counted as half bad luck. If I had succeeded would she have died? If I had not tried would she still be here?

I didn't have much time to wonder at what might have been though, for I heard three shrieks, followed by the sound of Galadriel's voice. Elladan, Elrohir and Estel raced past me, shouting for Celeborn. What had his suggestion been this time? I rose to follow my sons and make sure they had not come to any harm. Arwen would certainly not be happy if they had.

Despite the sadness I felt today, I smiled. Nothing had changed.

****  
\--paranoidangel

 

My discussion is [Nic's fic](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=172)


	24. One For Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

A/N: Samwise returning from The Havens

****

 

Across his path, swift flash of black and white: a lone and mourning magpie, bereft of mate and single to itself. No more the swoop and glide from copse to river, stream to wood; plunge and rise and joyous soar, wings tip to tip, through laughing, tumbling air, with call and answer woven in a single pledge of love and fealty lifelong.

 

 

"Seek thy mate!" The ritual invocation springs bitter to his lips, twists sorrow deeper in his breast; for his cannot be sought.

 

 

He passes on, and never sees the wanderer appear, the pair restored, remade in airborne bliss.

****  
\--Tiriel  



	25. Telling The Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Someone has to tell the bees there has been a death.

I have heard some say that that they will take offense and leave if they are not treated as part of the household at a passing. What a misfortune that would be! Without their aid nothing green would flourish, no matter how sweet the soil, how caring a hand tended the garden. But more - their company, their fierce determination as they share the work, the busy buzzing of their conversationS( my life would not flourish without that companionship.

I have also seen that the bees are messengers, and as they go about their business, fertilizing the last fall blooms and setting aside with their unquestioning faith the last of this years stores for Winter and the promise of Spring, they will spread the sad news while still working to encourage life.

My news was a little unusual, for the darkest parts, the deaths, had happened elsewhere and some time ago. Still, it is a parting, to be sure, and my heart ached at the separation. I was, as he had warned me, torn in two. Yet it was the loss of the head of the house, and I knew it was my duty to tell the soft-furred ladies their master had gone. I wanted to have all my obligations fulfilled before I went again through my front door.

 

I stood on the path a while, choosing my time and my place. The garden table by the window where he had told me many stories to keep me out of my fathers way, knowing that the words of a good tale flourished in my young brain like mintS( the kitchen garden, with its fragrance of lavender and wild thyme that spoke to me now of a place far away that had offered a moment of healing and home, and the great-hearted friend who had believed in our needS( the rose arbor where he had told me to stop being so foolish, and welcomed my bride with open arms and heart)

You already know, I suppose. I am a simple man, and straightforward about these things. It called like a beacon, and I followed the golden light that gleamed through its branches down to the new tree in the party field.

The ground around was wild here, as he had preferred, winking eyes in the grass, buttercups and clover, new petals of elanor that coaxed us toward autumn unafraid. The ladies hummed softly in the sweet late air, full buckets on their legs as they readied themselves for the trip home over the fields, crisscrossing paths in the late heat, singing as they went - as much like four young friends with full packs and light hearts out for an evening ramble as made no difference. They had not yet left for their home.

I put both hands behind my back and tried to think of some fine words, reciting-words, the kind you are glad you thought to say when you look back. But I had no words as big as his heart, or as full as mine, or as soft as the bees.

I rocked back and forth a few times, and was startled to hear myself speak in the gathering dusk. "He's gone."

That wouldn't do at all, but how much could I say without loosing my own way. "He isn't dead, but he's not coming back, if you take my meaning. You have the right to know that I am the man in the house for now. I'll do my best for us all."

The ladies hovered in the still air, singing in a way that didn't seem so different from the night we met the elves while crossing to Crickhollow now that I thought about the two things together. Then they brushed against the golden stars that lit the lawn, and turned to cross the field.

Whatever it is that draws them over the grass and the fields to their own hive, unerringly, every time - I looked up and saw it, in the light shining in the small round window next to my front door.

Bees take their time - you cannot rush them. But I thought they would give me a chance.

My step was lighter as I walked up the path and went inside to yellow light, and fire; the warm smells of cooking and welcome. Rose drew me to my chair without a question; gave me a kiss and put Elanor in my lap. My daughter looked up at me and smiled like all the stars of heaven twinkling on at once.

I drew a deep breath. "Well, I'm back," I said.

****  
\--fileg  
you can leave comments for me [here](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=6&forumId=207)

or at powzie@gryphonsmith.com  



	26. The Weight of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Merry bent over and palmed one of the flat stones lying on the shore. Looking around him, he measured its weight. Admiring the wispy clouds meandering across the brilliant blue sky above him, he mindlessly tossed the stone lightly and caught it.

His thoughts went back to the mill pond at home and the games he played as a child, the sound of the mill wheel a never ceasing song. He remembered his father teaching him to skip stones; explaining about the luck one would earn depending on the number of times the stone skipped before finally sinking. Merry once had a stone skip eight times... He had three cousins born that day. Now every year on the anniversary of that astounding skip, he got a small pile of mathom and more cake than even his hobbit stomach could happily handle. The luck that skip earned had lasted a lifetime!

A smile lit his face as he stood there. Before he left the shire he and Pippin had skipped for luck on their journey, Merry’s stone skipped a right respectable six times. Now he stood here, rejoicing in the friends he had made, the folk he had met; recalling all of the wonderous sights he had beheld on this journey, some so glorious they stole his breath... others dark enough to make him shiver now despite the warmth of the sun. But the stories he had! He could almost count the drinks they would earn him, night after night, at the Golden Perch... Life just didn’t get better than this moment.

Once more the stone he had not stopped tossing landed in his hand. Without further thought he wrapped his finger around the back edge of the stone, reached his arm behind him and snapped it forward thrusting with his whole body, flicking his wrist for the perfect spin... one... two... plop. His face fell with the sinking stone. Suddenly he remembered the still water at the gates of Moria. He had only managed a three skip there.

It was going to be a long day...

Once again the roar of the falls entered his consciousness and he looked into the water of Nen Hithoel, before helping with the meal preparations.

****  
\--Chris  



	27. Bonding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"You're taking him where?" cried the queen, clutching her newborn son to her breast. Her handmaidens, busily helping the midwife repack her tools, looked up in startlement at the thin note of fear in their lady's voice. Noticing their attention, she modulated her tone. "On a night like this??" she hissed.

"To the stables." The king repeated his statement, then demanded sternly, "Give him to me." He took the whimpering infant from her arms saying more softly, "You know I would not let our son come to harm, Lothíriel. This must be done or they will not bond properly." Éomer searched his wife's face for acceptance, but received only an angry glare--clearly she would have fought him if she had been physically able. Sighing, he carried his son from the birthing room. It was not the first time their customs had clashed, and surely it would not be the last.

Éomer did wonder briefly about the wisdom of his errand when the cold rain lashed his face as he stepped out into the night. He wrapped the swaddling cloths more tightly around his son and cuddled the baby tightly to his chest, protecting him from the freezing needles of rain. The baby, perhaps sensing the strength and security of his father's embrace, ceased his fussy crying and concentrated instead on gnawing intently on his tiny fist.

Thankfully, the path to the stables was short and Éomer was barely damp when he pushed open the huge double doors and stepped inside. The stable was warm and smelled comfortingly of hay and leather and horses. He passed the long line of stalls where the horses of the King's guard placidly chewed their feed, unaware of the storm outside. He passed the larger stalls where the work horses shifted from one huge feathered foot to the other, seeking comfort after their long day in the fields.

Finally, Éomer came to the largest group of stalls where the mares and new foals were kept. He walked to the very end of the row, pushed open the gate and went inside. The baby began to whimper again and Éomer made soft soothing noises, as much to calm his son as the nervous mare who placed herself between Éomer and her foal, whickering uneasily.

"There now, my lady," Éomer soothed. "I'm only bringing my son to become acquainted with yours. We mean you no harm." He whispered and stroked the horse until she felt comfortable enough to move away from her foal and graze quietly at her feed tray. Quietly, he approached the spindly-legged foal that stood in the corner of the stall. "There's a fine, strong lad," he said, stroking its silky mane. "I've brought someone I would like you to meet." Cradling the infant in his hands--was I ever so small? Éomer wondered--he held his son out to meet the colt he would grow up with; the animal who would be like the child's very own brother.

The baby horse sniffed the baby human expectantly. What was it? Not sugar. It didn't smell like carrots, either. Carefully, the colt extended his nose and nuzzled the baby's face, puzzled. What was inside the strange bundle of cloths?

The infant, for his part, looked wide-eyed at the little horse. He waved his arms, unable to coordinate his baby reflexes to reach out to the animal. When the colt nuzzled him, he screwed up his face into a remarkable scowl.

Éomer's rich laughter filled the stable. "You look like your mother when you do that, lad." The colt nuzzled the infant again, making him sneeze loudly. The mare looked up from her feed, ears pricked up, and Éomer knew it was time to leave.

He left the secure warmth of the stables and braved the freezing night once more. He was all the way up the stairs and approaching Lothíriel's chamber before he realized that he hadn't made the speech he had practiced. Surely, the occasion of his son's first meeting with his horse deserved the most profound words. What had Éomund said when he presented his son to Firefoot? What words had Théoden spoken over Théodred and his mount? Custom did not dictate what words should be spoken, only that a male child should meet his mount before the first day of his life was ended.

Éomer held his son and heir tightly, wondering if he had failed the boy in some crucial way; failed him before he was even a day old. A fear deeper than any he had ever known engulfed him as he realized that the tiny life was literally in his hands and he had to sit down in Lothíriel's sitting room to catch his breath.

As he cradled his now-sleeping child and tried to breathe deeply he wondered if his own father had felt such crushing fear. Had Éomund sat clutching him tightly, vowing to protect him against any danger that might ever threaten him, even as he knew deep in his heart that he could not keep such a vow forever? As Éomer pondered that question, it became clear to him that the bond between child and horse was only a part of the ritual he had just completed. The greater meaning was perhaps only known to him, and to all the fathers who had gone with their sons to the stables of Rohan.

****  
\-- Alon


	28. Father of the Groom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

"Eldarion," Aragorn greeted his son as he sat next to him. Eldarion gave him a small smile in return. "What is it?"

"Just nervous, that's all."

"Nervous? Afraid she'll change her mind?"

"No. Yes. No, of course not."

Aragorn smiled. "Could you say it with just a little less conviction?"

"Couldn't you just go and see her for me?"

"I can't, Eldarion, you know that."

"But it's just an elven superstition. I'm not an elf."

Aragorn sighed. They'd had this conversation before and there wasn't really a good argument for it just now. Besides, if it put Eldarion's mind at rest... "Very well, I will try."

***

Aragorn approached the room Eldarion's bride was currently in, probably getting dressed. Upon knocking he heard a burst of laughter that sounded suspiciously like his own daughters'. He was therefore not surprised when Arwen opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" Shutting the door, she came out into the hallway, not allowing Aragorn to see in and forcing him to move backwards.

"Oh, well, I just wanted to see-"

"No."

He put on his most rational voice. "But, Arwen-"

"No."

He backed up further at the expression on her face - it was exactly like the one he'd seen many times before on Elrond's. He felt the wall at his back and decided that retreat was probably his best option.

***

When he returned he found Eldarion talking to a silver-haired elf.

"Celeborn! I didn't know you'd arrived."

"Do you think I'd miss the wedding of my great grandson? I came with Elladan and Elrohir."

On cue the twins appeared and Aragorn moved to greet them. It had been a while since he last saw his brothers, and he had been worried that they wouldn't arrive in time

"If you really want to see your bride, I have a way," Celeborn said.

Aragorn couldn't help from smiling, remembering Celeborn's brilliant idea on his own wedding day.

"What about that elven superstition?" Eldarion asked Celeborn.

"Didn't you know that the marriage will not be blessed with children if you don't try?"

Eldarion shook his head. Aragorn hadn't heard this one either - he was fairly convinced Celeborn was making it up just to cause trouble.

"Your father tried, and your grandfather too."

"In that case I will not be the one to break with tradition."

"Good." Celeborn smiled and leaned closer to Eldarion to whisper conspiratorially into his ear. "Now, here's what you have to do..."

Aragorn didn't need to hear the details of Celeborn's plan because it probably hadn't changed since his wedding. And it was probably not going to work this time either.

"Watch out for your own weddings," he said to the twins.

"Oh, don't worry," Elladan replied with a grin. "We'll put him on a ship first."

"I heard that," Celeborn paused in his whisper to Eldarion. "Now are you going to help or not?"

"Not me. I think I'll watch this time. But I'm sure Elladan and Elrohir will, won't you?"

"We'll get you for this, Estel," Elrohir said, but they were already being led away by an eager Eldarion.

"What if he does see her?" Aragorn asked Celeborn.

"Don't worry, he won't. But it will take his mind off his nerves for a while."

They both laughed.

"Did you try to see Galadriel on your wedding day too?"

"Now that's a tale for another time. I wouldn't want you to be getting ideas."

****  
\--paranoidangel

 

My discussion is [Nic's fic](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=172)


	29. Naming the Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

It was a glorious morning. The sun shone bright, the light breeze gently lifted the leaves on the trees, and a newborn babe lay in his cradle, sleeping peacefully - for the moment. His proud parents were busy enjoying this quiet moment while it lasted. His mother reclined on the bed, tired but very happy. His father, however, hovered over the cradle, a big, silly grin plastered across his face.

"Don't bother the child. He'll wake up soon enough and you can make silly faces at him then. You might even get a smile," the mother said.

"I wasn't making faces at him. I was simply watching him sleep," the father replied. "So peaceful. I would that all his days he may be so content."

"As would I. But who knows what the future holds? So for now, my dear husband, leave him in peace and come sit with me."

With a contented sigh, he left off gazing lovingly at his son to sit by his wife's side. "What shall we name the child?" he asked after a moment.

"Halandir," she said, without hesitation.

"What?" he asked, the smile slipping from his face. A shiver crept down his spine as he tried desperately to come up with another suggestion. "H-how about... Baralas?"

"What's wrong with `Halandir'? It's a perfectly good name; it was my grandfather's," she argued.

"Yes, and look at the end your grandfather came to..."

"Oh, surely you don't believe that H-names are unlucky."

"Of course I do. I've known too many men with such names to have fallen."

"Dear," she said, mustering all the patience she could, "you fight to defend Gondor. So did my grandfather. Our son will likely grow up to do the same. Already he may be fated to die in battle, whatever name he has."

"Exactly! No reason to then add an extra bit of help in that matter by giving him this name."

"You're not going to change your mind on this, are you?" she asked.

"No. I won't," he replied.

She sighed. "All right then. How about this? We honor your father by naming our son after him."

"That's a fine idea, my dear," he said, smiling once more.

 

* * *

Years later, Halandir - for he went by the name his mother had called him when his father was away, much preferring it to Minarmo - would remember this story as he stood as one of the picked men of the Tower of Guard, waiting before the Black Gate of Mordor. Even then he couldn't understand that debate about his name. For one thing, it seemed uncharacteristic of his father to be so worried about such a little thing. Halandir knew his father as one steadfast in battle - and everything else, for that matter.

More importantly, he couldn't see why "Halandir" would be such an unlucky name. For indeed, contrary to what his father was so afraid of, he had quite a lot of good luck. Some even said he had a charmed life. Small disasters did seem to befall him quite often, but he always got out of them unscathed by some lucky chance. His luck extended to the battlefield as well. On the Pelennor Fields, he'd straightened up from bending to retrieve a dropped arrow to find that the man behind him had been struck down.

So it was that he faced the Black Gate without fear. Halandir knew his luck might one day run out, but that day was not yet come. This day would be one to tell his grandchildren about. And indeed they loved hearing about it; their favorite tale was of how Halandir and his brothers-in-arms had been saved from death by troll by the brave young _Ernil i Pheriannath_.

****

\--Madgamgee

My discussion can be found [here](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=315).


	30. Wishing on the ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of fics written by Henneth Annn list members for this challenge. Fics are arranged more or less chronologically, with their titles serving as chapter titles. Authors' names are listed in each chapter. Some may provide contact info in their chapters as well.

Anarwe was going to war.

The thought resounded in Miranna's mind, again and again. Anarwe was going to war.

He was going to the Black gate, the Gate of Mordor, and few who came thence would return. But as a knight of Gondor, it was his duty, not to be shirked, not to be excused. In this desperate day, even young boys were going to war. It had happened before, but never so drastically. The men were going, almost certainly never to return.

In the Battle of the Pelennor, Anarwe had been lucky, suffering no more than a gash on the arm. Miranna knew how many were dead, and wounded severely, and she thanked the Valar that Anarwe was all right. But this time there would be no return.

Miranna dropped like a stone into her armchair, before the fading fire, gazing into the embers as tears flowed down her face, and dropped hissing onto the coals.

Unsummoned, an old rhyme her nurse had taught her when she was still young leaped into her mind. Taking a handful of the still hot ashes, she scattered it on the remains of the fire.

_Dark ashes, bright flame,_  
Grant me this, in my loved one's name  
I plea. That darkness  
Shall be driven forth, and brightness  
Endure, And most may my loved one  
Come back safe when war is done.

**************************

It was a day of celebration in the city, such joy as they had never know in centuries, nay, millenia. Yet for Miranna, there was only one sight. Anarwe was home, riding at the head of his men, amid the cheers and singing of the crowd.

**************************  
By: Aramel  
Email: aramel_calawen@yahoo.com


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